By Kahlil Gibran Defeat, my Defeat, my solitude and my aloofness; You are dearer to me than a thousand triumphs, And sweeter to my heart than all world-glory.
Defeat, my Defeat, my self-knowledge and my defiance, Through you I know that I am yet young and swift of foot And not to be trapped by withering laurels. And in you I have found aloneness And the joy of being shunned and scorned.
Defeat, my Defeat, my shining sword and shield, In your eyes I have read That to be enthroned is to be enslaved, And to be understood is to be leveled down, And to be grasped is but to reach one’s fullness And like a ripe fruit to fall and be consumed.
Defeat, my Defeat, my bold companion, You shall hear my songs and my cries and my silences, And none but you shall speak to me of the beating of wings, And urging of seas, And of mountains that burn in the night, And you alone shall climb my steep and rocky soul.
Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage, You and I shall laugh together with the storm, And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us, And we shall stand in the sun with a will, And we shall be dangerous.
Good books are friendly things to own. If you are busy they will wait. They will not call you on the phone Or wake you if the hour is late. They stand together row by row, Upon the low shelf or the high. But if you're lonesome this you know: You have a friend or two nearby.
The fellowship of books is real. They're never noisy when you're still. They won't disturb you at your meal. They'll comfort you when you are ill. The lonesome hours they'll always share. When slighted they will not complain. And though for them you've ceased to care Your constant friends they'll still remain.
Good books your faults will never see Or tell about them round the town. If you would have their company You merely have to take them down. They'll help you pass the time away, They'll counsel give if that you need. He has true friends for night and day Who has a few good books to read.
It is November And all the leaves face my way Overlapping tussocks of grass Like long forgotten hills Dwelling in the overhang of fall
It is November Orange ribbons hand in tatters Patched up yellow cloaks are draped And whisking in the wind Then drifting to the earth And becoming winters pillow
It is November And there stands a lonely tower Base adorned with red bushes Flags no longer flying Crouched and crippled by the frost
It is November My feet bear down on acorns A thousand fold All left and forgotten Even to the squirrels Just a layer ‘neath my feet
It is November The solitary pines stand solid Near the ivy covered wall Their boughs raise and hail the heavens And their needles fall As the autumn wind dances a mournful dance
It is November Bare branches rake the cloudy skies And scratch out their heartfelt pleas Against cold glass windows Seeking what they have lost and will not find
It is November An old gate stands ajar Beckoning to no one Standing solidly open Despite the cruel fall wind
It is November Trees make colored circles A fading gold on fading green A fireworks display Now falling to the ground
It is November Cold air fills my body Cruel wind tosses my hair I seek a shelter from autumn My door is open Now I am home
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